


si tu avais essayé

by mybelovedcheshire



Series: La Liminalité [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, modern!AU, no really enj put the fucking phone down, takes place in a club, too much texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras finally consents to go to a club with his friends, but he isn't enjoying himself. He keeps texting Combeferre, to the chagrin of Grantaire, and even an exceptionally drunk Courfeyrac can't seem to get him to loosen up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	si tu avais essayé

“It’s not going to kill you to drink it,” Grantaire called out, over the club’s music. 

Enjolras didn’t answer. Every time he’d opened his mouth, the noise only got louder, and he was positive his eardrums couldn’t actually tolerate another decibel. He pursed his lips stubbornly, and pushed the glass to the side. 

Almost simultaneously, Courfeyrac half-fell, half-flopped into the chair next to him, and picked the drink up. “Santé!” He chugged it like water, and Grantaire grinned. Enjolras tried to contain his disgust. 

He failed spectacularly -- but he did try. 

But Courfeyrac was oblivious. He was in his element -- sweaty, red-faced, and too enthused by his environment to even notice that someone had stuck a €5 note in his shirt pocket. Or maybe it was his -- it was impossible to tell with Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras picked up his phone from the table and slid it open -- just as he’d been doing all evening. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

“Who are you texting?” Courfeyrac asked, draping one arm over Enjolras’s shoulder. 

If Enjolras was surprised that someone was touching him, it didn’t register. He kept typing. 

Courfeyrac pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Grantaire picked up his glass and bitterly stalked over to the bar. 

Leaning into Enjolras, Courfeyrac showed him his phone. “You’re not texting me,” he said bluntly. 

“No,” Enjolras answered without looking up. 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. He tried to glance at the face pressed against his shoulder without turning his head. “Why would I be texting you?”

“Everybody texts me,” Courfeyrac drunkenly answered. 

“You text everyone,” Enjolras told him. “We tolerate it.”

“You love it,” Courfeyrac grinned. He briefly struggled to sit upright, didn’t quite make it, and then gave up. “Who are you texting?”

“Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac spun around, clinging to Enjolras so he wouldn’t topple over. Enjolras’s mouth thinned yet again. Courfeyrac searched the crowd behind him, eyes slowly roving over the people on the dance floor. He paused as he recognised Jehan, dancing enthusiastically with Feuilly, and giggled. But Combeferre was not there. 

“Tell him to come out,” he insisted, turning around again. He still didn’t let go. 

“He’s studying.”

“He’s texting you,” Courfeyrac corrected. “He’s clearly not studying.” 

Grantaire returned with half a glass -- he’d been thirsty on the way over, and the sight of Courfeyrac literally hanging off Enjolras like a ragdoll wasn’t helping. 

“We’re discussing his assignment,” Enjolras explained. 

Courfeyrac stared at him. Enjolras didn’t notice. Grantaire raised his glass to them both in a sarcastic salute. He’d chosen to cope with Enjolras’s unwillingness to lighten up in the most time-honoured way -- by getting completely shit-faced. 

Courfeyrac put his face a whole two inches closer to Enjolras’s. If Enjolras moved his head even a little bit, their noses would have touched. “You are at a club,” he said slowly, still slurring despite his best efforts. Grantaire smiled. 

“I am aware,” Enjolras answered. 

He lifted his eyes, focusing on Grantaire. “That’s your fifth drink.” Grantaire’s hand slipped, and a large amount of beer splashed onto the floor. How he avoided spilling it down the front of his shirt was a secret exclusive to the basically-an-alcoholics of the world.

“Slightly less than fifth,” Enjolras amended, looking down again. Courfeyrac still hadn’t moved. His eyes were unfocused. 

Grantaire wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he asked: “Courfeyrac, what are you doing?”

He was trying to find the right word to describe the colour of Enjolras’s eyes. Without looking at his phone, he typed out a text and hit send. 

On the dancefloor, Jehan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He whisked it out while Feuilly rocked out beside him, read the message, and quietly contemplated. 

Courfeyrac got his answer a moment later. “Yep, that’s it,” he muttered. A second text quickly followed the first, and he sat up abruptly. “Gotta go,” he told them. He was halfway out of the chair when he stopped, slid one hand into Enjolras’s hair, and very loudly added: “Stop texting. Have a drink.”

The look of extreme distress stayed on Enjolras’s face even after Courfeyrac pulled away. 

“Refill?” Grantaire asked with a smirk. 

Enjolras’s nostrils flared. 

Grantaire sighed audibly. “You’re a real buzzkill, you know.”

“You’re an alcoholic,” Enjolras replied. 

“Stating another fact doesn’t make the first less true.”

Enjolras looked up -- properly looked up at him -- for the first time that evening. 

“Why come at all if you’re not even going to try to have fun?”

For once, Enjolras didn’t have an instantaneous answer. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t reply either -- he had no excuse for his behaviour. Worse -- he didn’t even seem apologetic. (In fairness, the latter wasn’t something that came naturally to him.) 

It was Grantaire who softened. He smiled and pushed his empty glass to the side. “Dance with me.”

Enjolras actually became more tense -- not that it was humanly possible. “I can’t. The music--” As if cued by his comment, the music changed, slowing down significantly. It was rare for a club -- but it was late. The lights dimmed across the dance floor. 

Grantaire stood up, walking around the table. He held out his hand and gave his best, most hopeful puppy dog eyes. “Everybody can dance to this,” he murmured.

He could see the wheels turning behind those bright, blue eyes as Enjolras genuinely considered it. And slowly -- very slowly -- the too-uptight-for-his-own-good leader’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He huffed, and stood up. 

Grantaire grinned from ear to ear. 

Enjolras’s phone buzzed for the fiftieth time. 

He picked it up. 

When he put it down again, Grantaire was gone. It was surprising -- Enjolras hadn’t noticed him move, much less vanish. He turned in his chair, checking the bar, but it was empty. 

He scanned the dance floor. 

Jehan was wrapped around Courfeyrac. Feuilly was still happily bouncing, completely incongruously to the rhythm of the music. Bahorel was drinking -- which didn’t surprise him in the slightest -- but he couldn’t find Grantaire. 

There was only one head of curly, dark hair in view, and that person was dancing with a tall, blonde woman. 

Enjolras blinked. 

And then he blinked again, because it was absolutely Grantaire that he had spotted. He didn’t recognise the woman, but he did flinch when Grantaire’s hands dropped to her waist, pulling her closer. 

His phone vibrated in his hand, but he didn’t answer it. 

He stood, still as a statue, and watched.


End file.
